Culture Shock

I was going through an archive of old photographs. This one presented itself. It’s a favorite of mine — from 2004. I’ve posted it online before, but never filled in the backstory…
I spent a few days in Taroudant, Morocco with these women — all musicians — in preparation for a 6 week U.S. tour that I was co-producing: The Spirit of Fes.
This entrance-way was to their tiny rehearsal space — A space for them, only. They walked a very fine line in Taroudant. Respected and shamed at the same time. Famous in the west, yet bucking the traditions in their little village.
I will never forget our first stop, which was the Library of Congress, in Washington, D.C. For all of us, it was a learning experience — frightening, amazing, hopeful and ultimately, joyful. [read Jon Pareles NY Times review here]
Our flights from city to city were usually punctuated with anxiety. These were not well-seasoned air travelers. We were an odd sight. A young white guy with eight or so hijab-laden women, gripping hands during takeoff and landing.
An airplane was one thing. But an escalator? We discovered together, the rush one feels when stepping onto a moving staircase. The elder matriarch threw up her coach lunch after her first ride.
Oh, the people loved them. They were the hit of a group of thirty international musicians that were part of this tour. Professional. Never missed their mark. Performed from their heart. Always.
We had a magnificient performance at UCLA’s Royce Hall in Los Angeles (I was still a New Yorker). Picked up glowing reviews. And we stayed in style, at the historic, Biltmore Hotel. [read Larry Blumenfeld’s Village Voice (RIP) article here]
Afterwards, the crew and I had stylish drinks in the very stylish bar. It was near the end of the tour. One of the Taroudant girls, Aisha, wandered down by herself. She had left her hijab in her room and instead, was wearing a wig, loaned to her by one of the women from the gospel group, touring with us.
I was shocked. This was a big step. She joined us — All men. Ordered a lemonade. We communicated in broken French. Laughed. Broke out in song. Created a scene.
I called the group’s manager as we were heading back to the elevators. He met us in the lobby and escorted Aisha back upstairs. The other women knew where Aisha had gone, but were too afraid to follow.
Later, I was sleeping. 2 am. A phone call. Apparently, according to the group’s manager, Aisha had lost consciousness and was unresponsive, collapsed in the middle of the hall, outside their room.
I immediately called 911, rushed to their floor and found all the women huddled around Aisha. She was alive, but slipping in and out of consciousness. We carried her into her room and waited for the paramedics.
At this point, I’ll cut to the chase. The paramedics arrived and examined her. I was the guy in charge, so one of them motioned to me, and we moved to the hallway. “There’s nothing wrong with her. I think she’s faking,” he said. I looked over at the manager of the group and he nodded in agreement.
The paramedics left and then we gathered around Aisha and willed her back to the living. She responded. She was not dead. Hamdullah!
The long and short of it was, Aisha did not want to go back to Taroudant. She figured that a medical emergency was the way to stay. She admitted as such, over breakfast the next morning.
A couple of magnificent performances later, I said a tearful goodbye to the some of the strongest and most talented people I’ve ever met.
